


I Need Her More

by ConstantineMK



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Death of a Parent, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantineMK/pseuds/ConstantineMK
Summary: This is a one-shot related to but not a part of the story I'm co-writing with Mischief11 titled "Love Thy Enemy". This story is dedicated to her. Working with her has been a fantastic experience that inspires creativity and I can't wait to collaborate further :)
D'artagnan's mother passes away. Buckingham offers his love and prayers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love Thy Enemy...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471275) by [ConstantineMK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantineMK/pseuds/ConstantineMK), [Mischief11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mischief11/pseuds/Mischief11). 



> If you're sensitive to the grief associated with losing a parent please guard your heart when reading this story.

     D'artagnan knelt down before the image of the Blessed Virgin and humbly bowed his head in prayer. The candle light glossed along the damp lines that traced down from his eyes like lace-fine tributaries branching out from the gulf of his blue eyes. He did not seem to notice them and made no move to wipe them away.  
     His physical body was of no concern to him.  
     Not now. Not in this moment.  
     His grief was silent as his lips shaped the familiar litany. His sorrow was unrelenting as he struggled to summon a picture of her bright smile without weeping. Even as he did so fresh tears spilled over his cheeks and beaded along the curve of his nose and down chin. He began the litany again.  
     He continued to tell his beads with trembling fingers and nails bitten raw to the quick. He prayed and rocked in the self-soothing way of the lost. Beyond the chapel walls, the last day his beloved mother ever saw came to an end with a spectacular sunset that she would never see. Her shallow, wet coughing and reoccurring fever had not abated as it had done in the past and, in the presence of the priest and his heartbroken father, his weakened but still beautiful mother took her last breath. It was such a great effort for her to draw it in... and as it left, so did she with it.  
     Proud shoulders slumped and began to unconsciously curl inward as his mind conjured that horrible sound her body had made as that thin, rattling breath escaped.  
     The first memory D'artagnan had of his mother was the first memory he had of life; his mother's curling yellow hair, bleached by the Gascon sun. He could recall burying his face in it and grabbing great handfuls because it smelled like fresh bread. As a young boy he'd constantly been hungry and her sweet breads were his favorite. She always laughed when he did this and she'd cuddle him close. He could still hear the ghost of her whisper, calling him _her little bear_ because his stomach would growl so loudly.  
     D'artagnan choked on a sob, head falling further.  
     She would never hold him again. She would never kiss his brow or sing him the folk songs she'd learned as a girl. He would never have her bread again.  
     She was now nearer to God than to him.  
     He squeezed his beads harder as he felt the impious jealousy carve another fissure deep into his heart. Covetousness was a sin but how he _longed_ to see her, to touch her hand, hear her speak his name just one last time! What he wouldn't give, may God forgive him! God did not need her as much as he did!  
     Only when he felt the air move behind him did D'artagnan realize that his prayers had fallen silent if not his tears, giving way to internal screams of "WHY!" aimed at God and the Devil both. A familiar presence took a knee on the pillow beside his just before strong arms came around him. His body knew better than his heart in this, slumping limply against the immovable strength that he trusted not to let him fall. His heart was wailing that these arms were not his mothers, that this world did not have her in it anymore, and what right did God have to take her? Was God's need for her that so much greater than his?   
     Instinctively his body coiled into the warmth. The smell of the brandy recently sipped, the ink newly dipped, and the leather currently worn filled his lungs. This was the calming scent of the man he loved. The man who was even now raking a hand gently through D'artagnan's hair and rubbing slow circles against his temple with a firm thumb. The rocking was now taken up by that sheltering form, all to the shuddery, wretched sound of a grieving son.  
     When at last he had no more tears to shed he lay quietly in his husband's arms. His skin felt parched and his pores ached as if he had cried out all of the moisture his body had to give. His eyes felt scalded liked they'd been steamed and salted. His chest burned from the force of the sobs that had punched their way out through his stomach and lungs. His head throbbed unmercifully to the furious pounding of his heart. All of this and he was alive. But his mother was not.  
     His mother was not.  
     Rolling his red-rimmed blue eyes up D'artagnan watched his husband pray. Not the elaborate, somber prayers of a Catholic but the self-enlightened ones of a Protestant. Their religions should have ensured their mutual enmity. Their nationalities should have immediately rent them asunder. Their ages, their loyalties, their stations... all should have stood as the walls of Troy to keep them apart. Yet fate and God had colluded to create a Trojan Horse that rendered all barriers moot- the soul mark. The one unifying force that could send the mightiest walls tumbling and raise love above all other worldly concerns. So here was his English-Protestant-Duke husband caring for his grief-stricken French-Catholic-Musketeer husband.  
     D'artagnan blinked drowsily as his eyes drifted away from that much loved face. They traced the familiar image of the Virgin. She was brilliantly painted and seemed to glow in the low light. His mother had always loved the Virgin and would pray to her every morning with the sun. When he was small, she would sometimes wake him and they would pray together. She said that she felt closer to the Holy Mother before dawn when the world was still asleep. He hoped that he could find a way to be good enough to see her again someday. He would pray to the Virgin that it be so.  
     "Dear heart," George whispered after a time, his easy rocking slowing to a stop. "Come away now and rest. She would not want you to makes yourself ill, not on her behalf."  
     Lids fell over blue eyes, clenching tight. A knot of emotion swelled in his stomach, pushing tendrils up into his chest until they wrapped around his grief-sick heart. The pain at hearing his mother spoken of in the past tense constricted those tendrils until he couldn't breathe. He felt so out of control but his poor body lacked the strength to manifest tears or convulsions or any physical sign of his woe.  
     "Will you stay with me, George?" He choked out. "You won't go?"  
     "If I have my way you'll never leave my arms again. Now, I'm going to take you to bed. Let your heart be at ease, my love." George lifted D'artagnan into his arms in a bridal carry and devotedly kissed his hair.  
     "You will see her in your dreams."

THE END

**If you like this story please click the Kudos or comment. I may post more depending on the reception of this story. Thank you for reading and please check out "Love Thy Enemy" for more D'artagnan/Buckingham**


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